Yet another bundle of joy...

Have been hearing of two little babies that have landed on the blogosphere- Noon, and RBdans. And now, I have one almost in my backyard. Well, it would be in my backyard...., if my flat was a house....., with land around....., like in Kerala.

But as of now, this is in the flat right adjacent, and our kitchens have our utility areas facing each other. And the flats are so close, that I can reach out my hands and accept goodies from my neighbour and vice versa. She is also a young mother, like me, and since she moved in during the time when I was still a SAHM, we'd formed a bond of sorts. And this lady has given birth to a bonny baby boy, on Fri.

Today, she espied me when I was loading the washing machine, and said from her kitchen with a bright smile- Hey, I delivered my baby!
And the next sec, we were both laughing through the grills, at each other. Talk about monkeys in the zoo!

I was really pleased for her, for I knew she had been a wee bit worried about the birth, inspite of it being her second, as she had had some problems with her pregnancy. She was a little disappointed with the sex, for the first one was a boy- he's two yrs old- and she'd wanted a girl second time around. We chatted a bit, then her Mom came to shoo her back to bed.

And I went back to get ready for work, with a smile still on my face, thinking of her. Of when she'd proved how caring a neighbour she was...

We had been having a puja in our home- a Ganapathy Homam and a Bhagavathy Seva. For those who do not know, this is a puja done basically to get rid of all obstacles and usher in prosperity. For the homam, a lot of smoke ensues, when you pour the offerings on the fire. Well that particular time the fumes were particularly dense, and started issuing out of all possible vents.
The priest was chanting the mantras in the loud, typically nasal tones, and also had his bell ringing, so that we didn't hear it initially. Then we couldn't miss it- It was my name- being screamed madly, frantically, by my dear neighbour, with utter panic in her voice. She seemed to be going beserk from the sound of her. I rushed out, thinking something must've happened to her son, and saw that her face was pale with fear, fright, worry...

"What happened? What's wrong?" I yelled, in a panic too.

"Your home is on fire," she shouted, gesturing frantically towards my kitchen.

"What??!!" And I looked back.

Because the kitchen doors are the ones to get the maximum airflow, we had kept them open, and the smoke was pouring out of it in great volumes, and kept pouring, densely, as the fire consumed more and more of the ghee and other offerings...

And this poor lady probably had thought that I and my son were being roasted alive. And she was yelling for all she was worth for us to get out. She was a muslim, and had absolutely no clue as to the mad things we hindus sometimes get up to. Filling our houses with smoke indeed!

I explained matters, and she gave me a look that spoke volumes. Indeed I cannot express in words, all that her look conveyed to me that day!
But it certainly conveyed that she was a caring, concerned neighbour.

Present continuous

"Ammaaaaa! Why you not getupping?"

huh? what was that again? have heard of harrumphing horses, but getupping Ammas?

My friends and me...and religion - Part 1

I form close friendships with time, but again, over time, we drift apart. As in, we move to different cities, countries.. in the name of our jobs, families.... However, I still have the fondest memories of most of them, never mind that we haven't seen/spoken to each other in years.

There was B- a Christian pal I had during my MA days. She was the most scatterbrained girl I have ever had for a friend. And also one of the dearest. We were quite inseparable, and when, once, we went to Guruvayoor, she accompanied us. I had no worries that her visit would sully Lord Guruvayoorappan. All of us were suitably clad, and we were chatting our way through the long queue, and had almost reached the front doors, when- horror of horrors!!! Madame B had the cross out on her chain for all to see!

We very much knew that it was forbidden for non-Hindus to enter, and were petrified that at any moment one of the temple authorities would see and haul us up , and create a scene and... God knows what! We were 5 of us, and somehow we managed to put her in the middle while the offending cross (sorry Jesus) was shoved into the interiors of her clothing. Whew! Phew! Our beating hearts calmed down, and we proceeded inside, offered our prayers to Lord Guruvayoorappan and came out. Once outside, the tension seeped out, and we rolled on the floor with relieved laughter, literally.

Then there was the time, when on an early moring excursion, we bumped into a beautiful relic of a temple, with fish in the temple pond and a rambling rose growing in the midst of the Tulsi inside the temple courtyard...We went inside and since it was the morning hour the temple priest was doing the puja. He came out with the arti. Now, B knew that we anointed sandal paste on our foreheads, and put the flowers on our heads, but she had not yet gotten into the fundas of the arti, and so she just proceeded to copy us. She held her hands over the flame and took them to her forehead, and then- proceeded to make the sign of the cross!
Practice dies hard, you see.

Help- Sonny boy has homework!

Last year, Sonny boy, had only a Colouring Book, in which he had to colour some 2-3 pages every week. This year, he has advanced. He has
Cursive Writing
Writing Numbers
Interactive Mathematics and
General Knowledge.

And yesterday was his first instalment of homework in the M2 classes.
Pages 1-4 of GK and Pages 1-8 of IM. Which again had to be done over the course of a week.

We sailed through the GK, which was basically colouring of the longer, shorter, taller, bigger, smaller objects. This year, I decided that unlike last year, (where he did the colouring mostly on his own with minimal moulding from me, and thus made his drawings quite uniquely different from what they were supposed to be, and earned a 'colour more neatly' remark from his teacher) I would help the little fingers grasp the pencil better, till he was able to cope more 'neatly' on his own.

And then we came to Interactive Maths. Math has been my bete noire in all my school years, (till I scored highest in class, for the first and only time, in my 9th std, under the guidance of an able, simply amazing teacher- the best I have ever had in Math) So I have been hoping that here, his genes take after his Achha who is definitely better at numbers than I am.

Well, Sonny boy had been pretty ok with his numbers, tho' there were the times when he would count, ' vun, two, fore, seben, TEN!'
And then there was the time when I taught him to count on his fingers, starting with the thumb at one, and when he kept missing six, I told him that the little finger (on the second hand) stood for six.
So now he goes ,
"one two, three, four SIX, " because
"that ish little finger, Amma. Little finger is SIX!"
Logic and his Amma certainly have their sway over Sonny boy.

So yesterday we were doing the numbers, and we finished with One and came to Two. On that page, were two beautifully coloured butterflies. So I let Sonny boy look his fill, and then I asked, "What is this, Sonny boy?" pointing at the number Two.
Pat came the reply.
"Butterflies!"
Yeah, but what is this? Jabbing by the Amma at the number Two.
"Lotsh of butterflies!"

Help! I think my son takes after me in numbers!



And then, in GK, we were at tall and short, where the pictures were of a tall cone icecream and a short and squat cup of icecream.
"What is this?" Pointing at the cone.
"Taaallll."
"Good. What is this?" Pointing at the cup.
"Ffffaat!

Restoration age writings!

Well, in one of my earlier blogs, I mentioned that I migrated to English Litt. after graduating in Chemistry. I took to Literature like a duck to water, and was fast throwing my feet around in the waters far better than my fellow ducklings. For I read much more than most of my classmates.

The English library was so diferent from my concept of a library.
In the first place, it was NOT located near the staff room. Secondly it was not a dark, boring place. Thirdly, the 'wanted' books were not all thick, heavy tomes, dog eared and yellowing. But yes, there WAS that all pervading, uniquely lovely smell of books. Not the intoxicating fragrance of new books, but still mmmmm......

The library was bright, airy, had desks and chairs comfortably arranged, fans that worked, silently with no irritating drone, stools near the shelves, and two attendants with eagle eyes and dog ears. (Inside the library they were dragons, but outside, they were dear lambs.) And the shelves- there were separate shelves for the different kinds- Indian, American, Foreign, Drama, Prose, Criticism, Poetry, Shakespeare... loads and loads of lovely, yummy books- all in perfect condition- old and new, and lots of copies.

I remember, one weekend during the early days, Dad dropped in just like that to see how his 'little' daughter was coping, and he was astounded -and later he told me in a letter, delighted- to see me in the library. I realised totally, what people meant when they said- like what you do, and it will be no drudgery, but a pleasure. (wish I could say the same about my job now, sigh!)

The first year passed by like a dream, with me having maximum fun in class as well as outside, for I am a strong believer in the all work and no play making Jill dull funda. And beside, here, like I said earlier, work was fun too.

Well, all too soon, it was exam time, the usual jitters caught hold of everybody, and I was no exception to the rule.
Exams went like a dream too, and soon it was time for our viva. Here, I was getting a wee bit worried, for they might ask me anything, on general stuff, that the others would have learnt in three years of graduation...

However, the viva too went by- almost like a dream- except for one last question, that was almost an afterthought by one of the examiners. I remember there were 3 guys, and one of our own professors, and I sailed through everything..there was one last question on Wilde and Comedy of Manners. I spoke confidently and well, and the guys all nodded and smiled in farewell, when there came a parting shot from one examiner-

"Why is it called Restoration comedy?"
"It is is one among the works of restoration drama, "went I. "Generally, the satire lends to comedy, hence Rest. comedy."

"Yes, but why Restoration?"
"It focusses on the restoration of moral values."

A quizzical look.
"It brought back into prominence the play of morals"

Why Restoration?
Ultimately, as politely as I could, without telling him to go boil his head in oil- "Because it r-e-s-t-o-r-e-d values back in society."

Why Restoration? It could be called any other name..? "
I gave up.

I could sense that he was driving at something, but it was beyond me to even guess. This is just a little of what I remember of our interchange of questions and answers. I think the two of us would have spent a good five minutes going back and forth without either of us getting any happier, but neither of us giving up.

"Go back to what you learnt for your graduation," sympathetically urged one of the other examiners, all of whom had become very interested in this exchange. They couldn't understand how I was unable to answer so 'simple' a question, when I had done so well and articulately for all the rest of the session..

I was defeated.
"I didn't do my BA. I did my B.Sc in Chemistry, and then shifted to MA English, because I liked English and Literature, I said, ruefully, looking to my Professor for support in this statement. He smiled and nodded at the others.

Tension eased in the room. The examiners laughed in understanding. I was far from laughing. But I WAS relieved at the sudden release from stress.

"Its called Restoration drama because Charles II was r-e-s-t-o-r-e-d to the throne, "said my tormentor, using my own tone.

I laughed too, glad that I was redeemed, nay, restored in his eyes, for English history was not part of the MA curriculum, it was part of the BA curriculum.

O Laila...!

Yesterday was a friend's daughter's second B'day. And Sonny boy was cordially invited, with family.

She had come over for Sonny Boy's b'day earlier in Feb, and her parents and we'd gone together for another friend's kid's B'day subsequently.. where the pair of them were the only two toddlers and they'd made a hit pair. She would run after the chettan (big bro) and the big bro would lead her a merry dance. Basically both of them were totally taken with the acres of space after being coccooned in flats, and they had a rip-roaring time running around bushes and lolling about on the green lawns.

Yesterday, when we were on our way, we cautioned Sonny boy that the brightly wrapped up gift was for the B'day baby and that he had to give it to her, and wish her, and not poke his fingers into the cake- it was Leya's not his! and generally be a good boy.. and then we asked him,
"You remember Leya baby, Sonny?"
"O coursh!"
"Where did you see her?"
"In my house"
And then he trills merrily, "Laila, Laila, Laila...!

They proceeded to have a merry time at the party too.
By the time we left, guess Leya's Dad was glad to have his daughter separated from her Majnu.

The logic of it

Last weekend, we were going to Guruvayoor by train.Since it was an ac coach, the train was reasonably clean (and I am not too fussy), so let Sonny boy have the run of the coach. In the next compartment was a cute boy, slightly older than my 3 year old. After the initial shy looks and peeps, they decided to bond.

They had a wonderful time together playing bulls-pawing-the-floor and locking horns; clambering up the berths- the 3 year long legs valiantly trying to keep pace with the legs with about a year's extra growth, and of course chatting nineteen to the dozen- my son loves this!
Unfortunately he is not totally proficient at it yet.

Midway they got down to figures. Said the elder cutie, I'm 4 years old. Are you 4?
Said mine- Noooo, i'm not 4, I'm Agashya! (Agastya)

Decided then that my son takes after me. Numbers are a mere piffle for him and hold no attraction. But logic rules! And it won the day for him that night as all of us listening collapsed in laughter at the irrefutable logic of my son, which had the 4 year old totally stumped.

Days of the Raj

I just finished a rambling blog on the moon. In it, I mentioned 'English' girls. Which made me remember this amusing comment.

I had entered Calicut Universtiy to master English Language and Literature. I did that to a certain extent. But filthy lucre stepped in between me and my mastering. I qualified in my MBA entrance exams. And so I switched courses in between.

Then, I fitted neither with the old, nor with the new. All my 'English' friends were preparing to bid farewell, and move on, while I had to stay back. My first semester, I was missing for most of my classes, as I was out with my 'English' friends. I was duly nicknamed 'Visiting Faculty' by my MBA classmates.

One day, I was in search of my English friends. I'd gone to all the places on campus that we used to frequent, but had drawn a blank. Finally, I asked a Phil. batchmate- Sivasankaran, whom I met on the crossroads whether he had seen the English people. He smiled and said no. I smiled back and we moved on. Then he added- I think they were last seen in 1947.

Musings on the moon....

I am not a Sun person. No offence meant to the Sun, but he kind of makes me feel all hot and bothered, and in the last 10 years, makes me all red and blotchy and puffed-up and itchy all over. If any of you reading this is a dermatologist, you would immediately know that I was allergic to the sun, more specifically to the uv rays in sunlight.
But I am definitely a Moon person. Irrespective of the fact that she is just basking in reflected glory, I am a staunch fan of hers. I just looooooove gazing at her. The darker the night, the better. And the stars are just icing on the cake...

I wasn't born a Moon person. The first 20 years or so of my life, she was there, and I was there, and while I sometimes did think her exceptionally bright, making the nights softly luminous, that was it.

The romance took root during my PG days on the Calicut University campus. This was the first time I was staying away from home, and the first time, when nights were spent out in the lap of Nature. I was trying to master English Language and Literature, and was finally, after 5 years of mugging chemistry and physics and maths and biology... loving what I was learning. Finding the journey of learning unbelievably pleasurable. All those hours of reading and loving it made me appreciate my surroundings so much more than earlier...

The campus was about an hour's hourney from the nearest bright lights. A return from our frequent jaunts to the bright lights, always meant a walk up and down the hilly terrain of my campus, back to our hostel, which was situated at the farthest end of the campus, well away from the classes and offices and other establishments, and farthest from the Men's Hostel! Since the bright lights were far, the nights were inky black and perfumed with the scents of the night blooming flowers...All that was needed to complete the magic and make us think almost like an alternate Wordsworth was the magic of the moon.

She would be smiling down benignly on all our nocuturnal adventures and gigglings and tales concocted for the benefit of our Hostel Warden, as to why we were late. (A movie, a classmate's mother fallen sick, missed the bus... the excuses went along the usual lines, given to us by seniors as reasons accepted by her.) Every step of those walks on that sprawling campus, the Moon followed faithfully. And the romance came into bud. It was impossible, for me at least, to be indifferent to her charms. I fell, hook , line and sinker.

Our hostel at that time was unique in the sense that it had a sloping roof onto which the girls could get on from the terrace behind. All that was needed was a vault over a low wall, and Bingo, we were on an expanse of roof, from which we could view the countryside. Literally the Queens of all we surveyed. The favourite pastime of the 'English' girls was lying on the terrace, till mess time. The Chemistry, Physics, Maths girls had to study, you see, and prepare for the next day's classes. All the group prep of the English girls was done from there, and we loved every minute of it. This was the stage in my life when my relationship with the moon blossomed forth into a full blown affair.

I would eagerly await her coming. Count the days till her full glory was out on sight for the world to drink in. With the stars to give her company. I could see the moonrise from the windows of my room. The first half of the month, she would be palely luminiscent. Like freshly made butter which baby Krishna hankered after. The second half, the sky would have a yellow-orange glow to it. And the moon when she finally deigned to make her appearance would be like a piece of cheese- yellow, going on orange.

I was quite mad about her, and my friends indulged me my madness, for it cost them nothing. Except for one night. I remember the time when I showed them the moon one particularly radiant night, and all of them looked and agreed with me that she WAS beautiful that night, and we imbibed her beauty for some 5 minutes as we walked down... And then I got thrashed for my pains at trying to hone their sense of beauty. For it was Vinayaka Chathurthi that night! A night when to look on the moon is forbidden, as you will earn disrepute and slander. How we laughed that night! Fortunately, none of us got into disrepute that year. If we did in subsequent years, that is no fault of mine or the moon.

I fell in love. Shared several things in common with my husband-to-be. Introduced him to the non-common things. Got him also to appreciate, if not fall in love with my moon. I remember one letter of his, after we were apart for sometime, which had a line- 'I don't see the moon and I miss you, I see the moon and I miss you more... '

After we got married, my husband also has gotten into the habit of moongazing. Maybe not gazing, but noting definitely. And mentioning it when she is particularly note-worthy. Our son has inherited this love for the moon. But sadly for him, all he can appreciate is a moon that is overshadowed by the bright lights. I'd like to think that he is that stage when he and the moon exist, when he is struck by her beauty only when his parents exclaim at it. He has not yet seen her in all her glory. In a velvety black sky, with the intoxicating fragrance of the nightflowers wafting all around you, and only a silver luminosity to show you the path that is almost not there...When it lights up all your world brighter than the sun, measured by your feelings. That will come, in another 20 years..

Hits and misses in la langue francais

I have recently been enjoying ageless bondings with a student of French. It brought back memories of my days of learning French.

I had taken French as the second language for my Plus Two. Reason 1- you were supposed to score excellent marks in French. Reason 2- one scored pathetic marks in Hindi which was the other option. The most delightful reason, as we found out subsequently was - French was not taught in college. You had to have private tuitions, the benefit being that the French students got to laze around college during the language hour. I can't begin to describe here the joy of being able to be totally nonchalant when the Princi's spy came lurking on his rounds, to catch those students who were bunking class! Of legitimately roaming around the campus at a time when all classes were jampacked with students. Totally blissful those days and hours were!

But soon it came to be that every Jean, Marie and Pierre who cut classes used la langue francais as their excuse to be sunning in the open, instead of sleeping it out in class. And so the seniors, especially the non-Frenchies started taking the Frenchies to task. And so whenever anybody said that they were 'French students' the seniors started asking the freshers some questions in French to catch them out. If caught out, the juniors would have to sponsor bondas and tea at the friendly college canteen.

Now we were three friends then, and totally bindass we were about cutting classes in those heady days of college after emerging from a convent where you'd sooner be caught dead than cutting class. Unthinkable, unimaginable, mindboggling the very idea was- in school. And here was French showing us the way- a totally happening way! in our first year of college. We would bunk the hours immediately before/after French hour, so that we had two delicious hours of freedom. We never stayed in college during those hours, for we didn't want to get caught by our seniors. (we only wanted to buy ourselves bondas and tea, you see) We sauntered down deserted lanes and walked down railway tracks and waded into slushy fields for those elusive water lilies... We had LOADS of fun roaming the countryside by the campus, getting acquainted with the neighbours who never refused glasses of water to quench the thirst, and buckets of water to clean the feet, of the adventurers. Funnily enough we never went for movies! And we came back to college just in time to hear the bell break for the next hour.

One day while coming back from one of our jaunts a little early, we decided to while away the time in the reading room -where people did anything but read! Here you got to know all the latest college gossip- HOT and FRESH! Here the little romances budded and flourished! And here we were caught by our seniors whom we'd been giving the slip for quite some time now. We were cornered- 3 girls by 3 boys and the quizzing started, each boy concentrating on one girl.

My interrogator asked me what I was doing out of class.
I told him that French was my second language.
"Oh, so you're learning French, eh?"
"Yes," went I.
"What should you reply in French? "
"Oui," went I.
"Oui?!!"
"Oui, monsieur."
"Ah. "An approving nod here.
He asked me who my teacher was and I told him. He knew of her.
He asked me what I was studying currently. I told him something, I don't remember what, now. I knew he didn't follow that and so I knew he was a non-Frenchie.
Then came the French quiz. He asked me
"Comment t'appelle tu?" Which is French for 'what is your name'.
By now I was a bit flustered , and irritatedly told him "Bien!" with perfect nasal twang and all.
Which meant 'Fine'.
For I had mistaken the question and thought he was asking me 'how are you', which was 'comment allez-vous'? Our teacher had taught us respect, you see.
He was puzzled, I could see.
"Bien???" he repeated after me, with an assessing look
I thought he wanted me to be polite.
"Bien merci," I said. (Fine, thanks. Pronounced byienmussi-hope the phonetics is correct, if not, sorry, I have not learnt phonetics.)
He was even more zapped. There was this presentable girl, with a name like Bien merci??
He looked at me doubtfully. Was I having him on? A sterner look. Intended to make me quail.
I thought he wanted the whole sentence. I gave it to him.
"Je vais bien, merci", I told him. (zhevaybyienmussi- I'm fine, thank you.)
He quailed. This was beyond him. Which place named their girl children Zhevaybyienmussi, wondered the look on his face.
It was my turn to be puzzled. And by now mutinous. I looked him boldly in the eye.

He looked away uneasily. Nudged his pals. Said let's go. And they went. Leaving us three to compare notes.
Which was when realisation dawned. Initially I was chagrined to think that I could have misunderstood him so. What would he/they be thinking of me, of my Francais? But then, the humour of the situation struck us all. And we lolled about on the benches with tears of laughter streaming down our cheeks.

Whatever else, I'm sure he would remember the girl named Zhevaybyienmussi with respect!

Of course later, we met up again in the course of our respective wanderings, and we smiled and laughed at the misunderstanding and exchanged real names. But the zhevaybyienmussi will always remain a laughing memory.